


pine soot and incense

by wanderNavi



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Gen, Katara: so YOU’RE why my forehead keeps itching, Toph aggressively sending her soulmate Rorschach blots, Zuko and Sokka constantly: where the fuck is a pen, because I’m a fiend pumping that aro ace agenda, platonic and romantic, sorry I couldn’t include you in here Suki :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27832612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderNavi/pseuds/wanderNavi
Summary: His mother stares at the scrawl. After a deep and drawn out pause that has Zuko increasingly agitating to climb onto the East Wing’s roof and then not come down all day, no matter how many fresh dumplings or mochi he’s bribed with, Ursa faintly asks, “What … what does this say?”“Something about whale bones,” Zuko says with befitting dread.
Relationships: Sokka & Zuko (Avatar), Toph Beifong & Zuko
Comments: 21
Kudos: 279





	pine soot and incense

**Author's Note:**

> me: I should keep working on _all these multi-chap fics_  
>  brain: [throws a tantrum]
> 
> A minor note about birthdays that have barely any relation to the actual plot of this fic. My parents always joked that I was two years old near instantly: at birth, children start at age one and I was born days before the lunar new year. A person’s age increments with the new year, so by American standards I was a month old, but by Chinese standards I was two years old. We love culture.
> 
> All of this is to explain a single line in the first scene.

The first words on Zuko’s wrist appear in basically illegible script and takes him almost five minutes to maybe puzzle out: _don’t forget the whale bones_. It’s not an auspicious start to his day. He doesn’t even bother showing the words to his mother. Instead, he flies into an instant panic trying to find a shirt with unseasonably long sleeves. When a phalanx of servants materialize to investigate the noise of slamming drawers and wardrobe doors, they catch Zuko in the middle of a failed extraction mission from a shirt that somehow became too small over the last three months. In due time, Ursa appears in the doorway like a summoned spirit in one of the few old operas such as _The Crane Fishers_ that the Ember Island Players haven’t vandalized and ruined for all future human consumption yet.

“Zuko, dear,” Ursa says and extracts him from his prison with two swift tugs. The servants melt away from the room at the presence of their lady taking charge. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he says too quickly and shoves the guilty evidence on his arm behind his back, then instantly flushes at her raised eyebrow.

She holds out an expectant hand. In a frantic moment of insanity, he considers sprinting out the door in only his thin undershirt and denying the existence of any words for all posterity. The other eyebrow raises.

He swings his arm out from its hiding and turns his wrist up with all the reluctance of a caught assassin heading to his execution trial.

His mother stares at the scrawl. After a deep and drawn out pause that has Zuko increasingly agitating to climb onto the East Wing’s roof and then not come down all day, no matter how many fresh dumplings or mochi he’s bribed with, Ursa faintly asks, “What … what does this say?”

Worse, Azula’s going to _trap_ Zuko on the roofs and laugh at him until it’s night and force him to sleep up there. “Something about whale bones,” he says with befitting dread.

Ursa’s perplexed expression transfers from his still captive wrist to his face. “Whale bones,” she repeats. In the swelling pause that follows, Zuko frantically scans the corners of the room for his sister appearing at the worst possible moment.

His mother still doesn’t let go. “This isn’t your handwriting.”

“It’s not,” Zuko agrees, delaying the inevitable.

“Do you know who wrote this?”

“No.”

“Has this happened before?”

Of course not. “No.”

Another liquid silence fills the volume of the room. Ursa runs her thumb over the words one last time and Zuko shivers against the smooth sensation of her skating touch. Chancing a glance upwards, he watches his mother gaze off into an unmeasured distance, the slightest hint at a displeased frown across her brows. Her hand loosens. He pulls his arm away from her vicinity and fumbles for one of the discarded shirts in the disorganized nest upon his bed.

“Not that one, Zuko,” she says, brought back to the present. She excavates one of his training robes from beneath the hill of cloth and helps him into its sleeves. Testing the fragile furrows of the situation, she says, “Well, you are old enough for soulmarks to start appearing.”

With the new year passed not too long ago, he’s ten now. A solidly average age for the messages to start coming through.

“Come with me to the kitchens,” says Ursa.

“The kitchens?” echoes Zuko, hopping off the bed and trailing in her wake as she opens the door and departs from his bedroom.

* * *

The chef wipes her hands on a stained towel and says in a flat voice that might be deferential if she wasn’t simultaneously staring at Zuko’s covered arms with naked curiosity, “So the young prince has reached that age now.”

“He’ll need the suppressants,” Ursa says, polite and as firm as the hand clamped on Zuko’s shoulder, tucking him against her side but also vaguely menacing in the general context of he has no idea what’s going on. Suppressants?

“Don’t envy you nobles one bit,” the chef says. She tosses the towel aside. “Luckily, I got some left over from today’s batch. This way, Lady Ursa.”

Which is how, instead of being on his way to blades training as he normally would at this hour, Zuko finds himself seated in a tiny, surprisingly clean room in front of a small bowl smelling positively vile. He turns his aghast expression to his mother one more time. “ _All_ of it?”

“All of it,” confirms Ursa. “Every day, as long as your soulmate keeps writing.”

“But –” Zuko sputters. “Isn’t there anything the cook can add? To make it less – how about some sugar? Or lychee?”

“This is the best they can do, dear,” says Ursa. “If they add sugar or apple plum juice, it wouldn’t work. This is a recipe the palace perfected for centuries and believe me, they tried.” She attempts a smile.

He uneasily tips the bowl one way, then the other, watching the thick, dark liquid shift inside. It has the same consistency and color of hoishin sauce, with none of the appeal. Unbecoming of a royal prince, he whines, “Do I have to?”

“Yes, Zuko,” Ursa sighs. “The royal family cannot be like common people. Our duty is towards the harmony and unity of our nation and for that, we must look beyond our own intimate concerns. Take this like medicine.”

With a grimace and the general pallor of someone told to drink a poisoned chalice, Zuko forces down the concoction. The aftertaste coats his tongue with something akin to burnt bitterroot and frog slime. Bent over with instinctual coughing, Zuko submits to the deep despair that he’ll have to choke down a bowl of this horrifying suppressant every day. If he ever skips, the servants will know and therefore his mother will know. She’ll smile and ply him with sympathetic words, but that doesn’t change the fact that he feels like he drank the remains of a dead snake.

Ursa pats Zuko on the back.

* * *

Then it turns out that just about the only bright spot about being burned and banished comes when Uncle Iroh looks over their monthly budget with Zuko at his side and the two of them simultaneously realize just how little wiggle room they have after all the money is sunk into expenses such as coal and wages and food. The less Zuko thinks about the alarming percentage set aside for the inevitable repair bills when something or the other on this ship breaks, the happier he’ll be.

But that soulmark suppressant his mother lied about being an acquired taste? The ingredients are far too rare and expensive. Not to mention, none of them have any idea how to even make it.

“You seem happy, nephew,” Uncle Iroh remarks with a smile.

He is. He’s effusive with thankful glee. No more ominous sludge for him. Even Azula couldn’t find any comfort in making fun of him for his forced drink. No one can escape having a soulmate.

* * *

Sokka’s soulmate must be one of those more uptight people because they hardly ever write and when they do, it’s all in harsh, precise strokes sharp enough to maim a person. In the long stretches of silence, he consoles himself that at least he gets _some_ response, unlike Katara. All she gets is a steadily increasing itch along her scalp and down her arms and legs that finally plateaus into a persistent buzz around her twelfth birthday.

In the dim light of the hearth fire, Sokka makes out a jagged slash of black peeking out between his left glove and his sleeve. He tugs up the layers on his arm until he unveils: _NEVER trust chameleon swans_. Nothing else.

Sokka swings an elbow out and catches Katara in the knee. She swats her sewing at his head.

“Hey, no, Katara, hand me your grease pencil,” he says.

“What, why?” She glances over his shoulder. Then, “What kind of life does your soulmate _have_? Weren’t they complaining about a desert two weeks ago?”

He wiggles his fingers in her direction. “Pencil, Katara, _pencil_ , before they ignore me for a year again.”

“I don’t have it, go find Gran Gran. And your soulmate won’t ignore you for a _year_.” She yanks her scrap cloth out from under Sokka, sending him toppling over with a squawk. He ineffectively kicks at her, which she easily scoots out of the way. “You don’t see _me_ complaining. It’ll be fine.”

Kicking out one last time before rolling onto his feet, Sokka says, “It’s really important this time, listen to this. _Water you do to run a fowl with a swan?_ ”

His sister stares blankly at him, then nails him in the forehead with her grease pencil.

* * *

For the most part, Toph isn’t particularly interested in soulmarks – she can’t feel them and if her parents are anything to go by, they’re more trouble than they’re worth – so no one knows what’s Toph’s first message. She almost keeps not caring, if not for how _entertaining_ the first message everyone does notice is.

Or rather, the tirade.

It takes the combination of her parents’ shock induced inaction and a strategic pressure campaign on the house staff for Toph to be reasonably sure that the long scrawl trailing up her arm in increasingly affronted characters is:

_that you insist that a spear is an optimal weapon to use against a bender only speaks to the fact that you’ve never fought ANY bender before. all you’re doing is putting yourself at the perfect dist███_

_large wave hit_

_STOP SENDING ME PUNS_

The room’s wooden floor muffles the nervous taps of her mother’s fingers. “So uncouth,” her mother frets. “This isn’t auspicious at all.”

“We cannot deny the pairings destiny decides,” her father says to pacify this situation. “With the way the world is…” He sighs.

“The staff all promised they wouldn’t read anything so upsetting for her. Oh, this is so terrible.” Her mother sniffs.

And it’s galling, as it always is, the way her parents talk over her, the way they hide everything from her. Toph almost wants to care about her soulmark out of pure spite now. But her parents have made it stringently clear to the house staff that if anyone ever lets Toph know her soulmate sends another message like this set, they’d immediately be fired. Which is the worst because there are two things that have Toph itching to grin.

First, her soulmate is a _fighter_. That’s one thing the world did right.

Second, it sounds like Toph’s part of a triangle. That’s rare and her soulmate doesn’t seem aware of the fact yet. Which makes this perfect for pranks.

Toph’s parents never taught her how to read or write, so she’s never had much use for ink. But with her soulmate connection now apparently open, she should send a message regardless.

* * *

In the middle of training the same set for the millionth time – damn it, he mastered this set years ago, his uncle needs to _look up already_ – on his ship’s deck, Zuko’s entire left hand and parts of his forearm suddenly splatter with black. Seaman Shi Chang jerks to a halt. At the lack of yelling and fire bursts, Uncle Iroh’s attention finally detaches from his book.

They all stare at Zuko’s still outstretched fist.

 _Why_ , he screams internally, then externally.

* * *

Here’s why Gran Gran and Katara never press Sokka to identify his soulmate:

It’s no one from the Southern Tribe. If the sparse remarks from his dad and the older generation are right, they can’t be from the Northern Tribe – too much obvious traveling. And maybe Sokka can imagine a teenager from the Earth Kingdom, probably a guy (despite Katara’s petulant, “Mom said Great Aunt Yatta and other women fought too.”), aboard a merchant ship. Like one of the vessels the tribe’s men had occasionally traded tiger seal pelts with.

But what merchant crew goes into deserts and complains about navy commanders?

“Connecting with your soulmate is part of growing up,” Gran Gran counsels. “And growing up means learning how to face the complexities of the world.”

Sokka yanks on his sleeves, pulling the fabric down flush with his gloves. “It feels like a bad joke,” he mutters. “Katara’s soulmate says nothing and just makes her itch. And my soulmate’s probably a giant jerk. An even bigger jerk than they already are.”

He kicks against the ground in a restless fidget. “The Fire Nation took mom,” says Sokka in an even lower voice.

So no one presses when interspersed among the snark and the snipping Sokka receives messages like, _maybe you’ll get my uncle’s joke: two frogs meet each other at the river bank…_

* * *

The day goes from banal, to bizarre, to freakish in way too fast. Then straight off the high of that rollercoaster of crazy, Sokka’s stuck here now, staring at the darkening sky and the ice passing by. The beast, Appa, travels slowly against the arctic water currents. On the other side of the saddle, Katara unconsciously rubs a thumb over the back of her hand.

Sokka watches the movement of her rubbing, the way her scratching always focuses along a line to the center of her hands. Other people in the tribe have soulmates with tattoos. It’s not common, but the skin-deep itch is rather distinctive. He’s watched Katara run her nails along the part in her hair plenty of times and Gran Gran would speculate with bemusement at who would give a child such extensive tattoos. No one, that’s –

He bolts upright from his slouch. No, no, _no_ , no way. His knees skid across the faint salt crust on the otherwise smooth wood of the saddle and he clambers over to Katara’s side. Ignoring her inquisitive noise, he stares down at the boy on the bison’s head. Aang turns towards the commotion Sokka causes with a curious expression. He says, “Hey, Sokka.”

“Yeah, hey.” He hisses in a low voice so Aang can’t hear, “Katara, just how wide are the itch bands on your arms?”

Her eyes flash wide with excitement, “You think so too?”

Sokka waves a single demonstrative hand.

“Guys?”

“We’ll figure out for real back at the village,” Katara declares. She smiles down at Aang, wide and pleased, “It’s nothing bad, promise.”

The kid sends her a reflexive smile in return and chirps, “Okay.”

After one last beaming exchange, Katara grabs Sokka by the arm and drags him further towards the back of the saddle. “This is so exciting,” she gushes. “And even if he _isn’t_ , he’s still an airbender. Sokka, a _real_ bender! I can finally learn how to actually waterbend.”

He rolls his eyes. “That’s great, Katara.”

“It _is_ ,” she says, definitively, and can barely sleep that night out of anticipation.

* * *

Somehow Katara goes from pulling Aang aside while saying, “There’s something I want to check,” and the rapturous excitement that follows to _launching a signal flare for the Fire Nation_. That’s it, Sokka’s sister is trying to kill him and soulmates are in fact a terrible idea. Maybe spending however long Aang was trapped in that iceberg scrambled his brain a little. It’s reasonable, too much sea salt can probably do that to people!

At least the kid takes responsibility for the whole mess, though that doesn’t stop the whole mess from still _happening_. Up to and including the _ship_ making a beeline for their village like it’s the last call for seal jerky after which there will never be dried meat snacks in the world ever again.

An imminent threat of total destruction to the whole village should have been enough to drag everyone out of their personal dramas and band together, but it isn’t. The kids clumsily scatter around, patting more snow onto the walls, or chasing after their mothers to help out. The women grimly pack loose ends and necessities so they can retreat in a hurry. And Sokka doesn’t even want to know where Katara is, having a snit. Fine, it’s her soulmate and Sokka chased him out of their village and out of a pact they apparently struck while out exploring forbidden rusted ships, but the Fire Nation waits for no one.

Then he has to seek her out.

She’s in the tent they let Aang sleep in last night.

“Katara,” he says to her back around the string between his teeth. He finishes tying off his arm guards. “I get it, I’m sorry, but I need your help right now.”

She turns stiffly and takes in his appearance, then all her resistance melts out. “Oh. Is the paint ready?”

He nods. “Come on.”

Sokka keeps still for her light touch against his chin as she works her way through the colors, first around his eyes in black then shifting through gray to white. She wipes her fingers clean in the snow when she’s done. As he shoulders all his weapons, she asks, “You think the Fire Nation’s really coming?”

“We know ships sometimes come nearby when the ice is melting. And who knows how far people could see Aang’s lightshow when we found him. Gran Gran said it was as clear for her as it was for us. And then with the flare,” he shakes his head. “They’re coming.”

* * *

Some jackass Fire Nation ship breaks down Sokka’s defensive wall and also Katara’s soulmate isn’t just an airbender, Aang’s the _Avatar?_

* * *

Early on, Zuko foolishly thought that once he finally dragged the Avatar out of hiding, capturing him wouldn’t be much harder. He is, as with everything, wrong.

Every time the Avatar is in his grasp, he gets away. The South Pole, Kyoshi Island, _Crescent Island_ , again and again. And the less said about Commander Zhao, the better. Ugh, what does it even say about the navy if a man like Zhao can make commander from captain so quickly.

So that’s Zuko’s day, every day – heaving out every single map he can gets his hands on, chasing down every rumor or sighting of an airbender and two water tribe teenagers, anxiously checking that the Avatar hasn’t decided to quit the coast and head inland instead, deny his anxiety every time his uncle asks. Deal with _pirates_.

Basically, Zuko doesn’t have time for the black crawl up his arms and sometimes even on his legs. Why his soulmate picks now to write more than ever in the last two years, Zuko has no ideas, but he’s definitely too busy to respond right now. He’s going _home_.

And. Well.

There’s definitely no space for soulmates back home.

* * *

“This is bad, I’m running out of jokes. I don’t think they’re even reading anything I’m sending them.” Sokka flops back onto his rolled up sleeping bag in defeat. “I was so _sure_ that last one would get a response.”

“Maybe they’re just busy,” Aang suggests. “Maybe you should write a message somewhere that can get their attention faster? Like on your hands. Or your face!”

“Thanks, Aang,” Sokka says to the cloudy sky.

* * *

“Prince Zuko, I do believe someone is trying to get your attention,” his uncle says mildly. He points to Zuko’s hands.

Zuko glances down. What. What the hell.

Across his fingers is a tangled mess of loops in clay red and off-white. A weird nob of black clings to his knuckles. Thick lines covers his whole left thumb. Flexing his fingers gives the whole disorderly jumble an abstract rippling effect. He turns his hand over. There are further smudges on his finger pads and across his palm. Meanwhile there are faint splatters of black across his right palm and the traces of something that might say “raider” or “band” in mirror-reverse characters.

He’s about to say, “Ignore it,” when another squiggle of white appears on his left hand.

“Fine, give me a brush,” he snaps and yells back at his soulmate, _WHAT._

* * *

“Hey, check it out! They responded,” Sokka shouts, distracting Katara and Aang in the middle of another waterbending practice session.

“Sokka, what did you do to your hand?” his sister asks, baffled.

* * *

“Wait, is this?” Zuko realizes four hours later as he’s heading to bed. Did his soulmate draw a _sky bison?_

* * *

Zuko gets blown up along with his rust bucket of a ship that he hated half the time, but it was _his_ and he spent far too much effort keeping it functional and floating for someone to just – just _blow it up_. With him on it!

But there’s no time to think too hard about _that_ mess because Zhao – who honestly might have set the record for amount of time between ranking as a commander and an admiral – launches an invasion on the Northern Water Tribe. During the full moon. Because he wants to kill the moon. Or some shit, it all doesn’t go according to _his_ plan and if Zuko’s face wasn’t still sore he’d laugh at Zhao.

The ocean smashes half the fleet into scrap metal.

His uncle’s too old for floating for weeks on an unmoored piece of driftwood. There’s no food and the water’s barely manageable. The sun and moon take their turns relentlessly staring at them. And Zuko can’t work up the energy to get into arguments or hold discussions or talk much.

“Uncle,” he scrapes together and tries not thinking about the mess his hair is right now.

“Hmm?”

“Look.” Zuko holds out his arm.

_what did the moon say to the ocean? I sea you waving to me._

That gets a light snort out of Uncle Iroh and for that, Zuko forgives his soulmate for every one of their terrible puns and jokes.

* * *

Aang bounces down besides Toph and asks, “Sooooo, do you get normal soulmarks?”

Does he really need to ask? “Of course.”

“Oh, but how do you know when you get a message?” he continues while walking backwards, keeping up with her stride.

“You have sleeves covering your arms and clothing covering your body. How do _you_ know when you get a message?” she counters.

“I check. But I could be missing some, Katara doesn’t like leaving ink on her hands for a long time. Oh! Hmm.”

They arrive at a suitable stretch of ground for training. “Right, so I check too, in my own way. _Counter_.”

He goes toppling over from her bent rock.

* * *

After everything leading up to this, the best thing Zuko can say for Ba Sing Se is that at least he and his uncle finally have a roof over their heads again. And the tea, he guesses, but that’s almost purely for his uncle’s benefit.

It’s completely for his uncle’s benefit.

Ba Sing Se achieves what over two years on the same ship with Uncle Iroh didn’t manage: Zuko’s finally memorizing all the different varieties and blends of tea that Iroh’s been trying, completely unsuccessfully, to impress upon him. The people of Lower Ring aren’t that sophisticated so the orders aren’t as complicated as Zuko sufferingly knows they could be. But Uncle Iroh just takes that as a challenge and starts suggesting improvements and customizations to the regulars and soon Zuko’s taking down orders with far more detail than tea warrants for more and more people because Iroh keeps converting more customers into becoming regulars. The shop owner’s overjoyed, but Zuko’s losing his mind.

One day he misplaces his order pad and out of desperation against the onslaught of “one and a half spoons of sugar, four chrysanthemum buds with a bit of osmanthus, all in shoumei with a touch of honey, slightly chilled” he scribbles it all down on his inner wrist.

As he’s reading that sweet mess out to his uncle, along with the more reasonable orders, underneath the scrawl, Zuko watches a “ _is this even drinkable?_ ” appear under the horror show.

 _absolutely not_ , Zuko writes back before grabbing the filled tray.

* * *

“Uh, hey guys,” Sokka says at large to the room with a dubious undertone to his voice. “I think my soulmate might be in Ba Sing Se.”

Aang and Katara walk over from the side of the room they’d been sitting in to get a closer look at all the waving Sokka’s doing. Toph stays put. Katara asks, “How do you know?”

“You know how Aang made that zoo but basically kidnapped all of Ba Sing Se’s pets while he was at it?”

“I didn’t _kidnap_ any pets. We returned them all,” Aang says in defense of himself. It’s not his best defense, Toph admits.

Overriding Aang’s proclamations of his innocence, Sokka continues, “Well it turns out that the cat at the shop they work at was caught up in that whole mess, so, you know.”

Aang does that thing where he floats around, shifting in the air as he thinks. He asks, “I don’t remember every place I went to. Do you want to look for them?”

He says it all forlorn, because that’s their life right now: searching for friends and things all the time. Toph decides she’s been keeping out of this discussion for long enough that she should probably join in a more demonstrable way. Reluctantly, she gets up from the ground where she’d been lounging, and pads over to where the others are clustered around Sokka. As she draws near, he sighs and says, “We’re too busy looking for Appa and trying to convince the Earth King to listen to us. And I’m spending all day trying to come up with plans for _how_ we can invade the Fire Nation on the Day of the Black Sun. So … not really.”

“Oh. But you look like you’re having such a good conversation with them?” Aang says, unaware of Katara’s growing discomfort beside him, a discomfort that mirrors Sokka’s.

“Yeah, why not?” Toph asks. If she knew her soulmate was nearby, she’d at least try checking on them. They’re a riot, it’ll be great getting to see them in person and in their full presence without any of her parents’ censorship out of concern for her delicate ears.

“Um, the thing is,” Katara tries saying, but stops there. Helpful, Sweetness, really helpful.

Sokka’s able to be more direct than her. “We think my soulmate’s from the Fire Nation. But we never tried confirming. They … don’t sound like they’re up to anything nefarious and terrible in Ba Sing Se, unless complaining about tea counts. So they’re probably not Fire Nation! And it’s not that important right now!”

A mass of crinkling noises come from his direction on the table as he messes around with some papers. Ever helpful, Toph plants her elbows over where she guesses some of the papers are and – ha – nailed it. She rests her chin on her propped-up hands and only grins when he complains, “ _Toph_.”

Katara gasps and whoa, there goes all their heartrates. “How –” sputters Sokka, “Toph, give me your arm.”

“Why?”

“I need to see something on it.” He sounds particularly strangled, like the staff did in the rare times Toph’s sleeves slipped up high enough for her wrists to be exposed and there happened to be a message – oh!

Her smirk grows into a genuine smile and she shoves her arm out in his direction. Excited since it’s been so long since someone read one of her soulmate’s really wacky notes, she asks, “Is it a message?”

“You could say that,” Aang says in flat surprise. “Toph, you have the same soulmate as Sokka.”

* * *

Sometimes Zuko’s soulmate likes covering his hand in ink. It happens. He’s fine with it. He’s totally fine with it, he’s finally learned to stop questioning why they do it. And besides, whenever it happens, the ink is usually scrubbed away quickly. It’s really not a big problem.

Except now – “Uncle, they’re doing it again,” Zuko calls into the kitchen. He indignantly waves his hand at Iroh’s direction amid his kingdom of tea bricks and giant tins and glass jars of loose tea leaves. Iroh glances up from measuring out a new blend of oolong and raises an eyebrow at the drips of black all over the back of Zuko’s hand. “I can’t serve customers with this.”

“Have you tried asking them to stop?” Iroh offers diplomatically.

Deeply aware of the irony and refusing to acknowledge it, Zuko protests, “They aren’t paying attention.”

“It’ll be fine,” says Iroh, inappropriately amused. “Why, I’ve seen greater antics between soulmates before.”

Not helping at all, old man. 

This doesn’t feel like antics. Every time his eyes catch on the stain of black on the back of his hand, the mark looms like a menacing promise. Frankly, he feels hunted.

* * *

Toph will give credit where credit’s due. The Dai Li are frustratingly persistent.

Well, so is she, and they don’t seem to realize how easy it is for her to keep track of their movements. Every now and then, she waves in their direction to make them feel more appreciated. But she generally manages to lose them around Middle Ring and definitely when she ducks into Lower Ring. 

Ah, here should be the next tea shop on her list. And there’s a customer coming out right now. Toph approaches him. “Excuse me sir, have you seen someone with a mark on their hand like this?” She lifts her left hand to demonstrate.

And _success_ , it only took a couple days. The man chuckles in good humor. “So you’re the one tracking down Lee? The poor boy’s been growing frantic about your messages. He’s right inside, he’s one of the servers.”

Toph bows. “Thanks.”

The door slides open with a satisfying slam. It’s a slow hour in the shop, with barely any customers, who all jump at her entrance. What’s more interesting is the person further in the room who didn’t jump at the sudden noise, but whose heartrate jumped a few seconds afterwards, like they just got a good look at who’s standing in the door.

“I’m looking for a Lee,” Toph announces to the room at large, holding her left hand out with the back shown for everyone to see.

The stunned silence lasts for a bare moment and then pandemonium erupts. The customers start cheering. People come out from the backroom investigating the noise. The interesting fellow’s heartrate jacks up even higher in bewilderment. One of the customers bounds over and gently guides her into the room out of misplaced care, while saying loudly, “Lee, congratulations, man.”

“Oh my,” says a familiar voice Toph didn’t expect to ever hear again. Okay, meeting the nice uncle in a tea shop does make sense and the fragrant smell through the whole room and trailing into the street is probably his doing now that she thinks about it.

“Which one of you is Lee?” she asks, just to make sure.

In a choked voice, she hears, “I am.”

_Huh._

“Alright everyone, calm down, calm down,” Uncle says. “Why don’t we let these two have some peace to get to know each other? Come along nephew, we’ll have more privacy in the backroom.”

Which is how Toph ends up in a back room, sitting on a burlap bag of what’s probably flour, while Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation stares at her in panicked confusion and she makes the connection that the nice man who made her tea in the middle of who knows where is probably the Dragon of the West. Exciting.

“The Avatar’s in Ba Sing Se?” is the first thing that comes out Zuko’s mouth.

“Wow, talk about a one-track mind,” Toph observes. “I go through all this effort to find you and you ask me about some other guy? Rude.”

“Well is he?” snaps Zuko.

“Nephew,” admonishes probably Prince Iroh, long-sufferingly.

“Did you know you actually have two soulmates?” Toph asks, curious.

That gets a small contemplative noise out of Uncle and manages to knock Zuko out of his carriage enough to stop chasing after Aang. “Two?”

“Hellooo,” she drawls and blinks rapidly.

“Oh. Uh. I hadn’t realized. I thought everything was coming from one person.”

Given what Sokka’s art skills seem to be – negligible and specialized in inscrutable blobs – that actually tracks. “Okay, I’ll give you that,” Toph decides. “Why _are_ you in Ba Sing Se?”

And wow, given the sparse summaries she’s been given, and that brief exposure to him and his sister in that abandoned town, Toph never figured he’d be so awkward. There’s a silence and movement like he’s giving his uncle desperate looks, but the man preoccupies himself with arranging a set of teacups for them all, before bustling off to take care of the few customer orders. With no help coming from any corners, Zuko finally admits, “We’re … kind of on the run. From the Fire Nation. They think we’re traitors. Which we’re _not!_ ”

Uncle just kinda hums. In a careful, I’m-not-getting-involved way. Everything is as entertaining as Toph predicted it would be.

“Cool. But you understand I can’t let you try capturing Aang. The world needs him, and I hate to break it to you, but most of your family’s messed up. No offense, Uncle.”

“None taken.”

That throws the poor guy for another loop. But he quickly gets back on his feet. “What’s stopping me from following you.”

Toph cackles. “You can try.”

* * *

Bless him, he does try.

* * *

The girl – Toph Beifong – returns the next day. And the day after.

For some reason, Uncle Iroh _knows_ her, which is absolute news to Zuko. Just as a lot of things are, like the fact she can just sink herself into the ground, laughing, and leave him no clues for where the Avatar might be. And his uncle’s no help, keeping a close eye on him at night and working him nonstop in the shop.

Except the weirdest thing is, Toph doesn’t seem to have told any of her group that’s Zuko’s here. When he asks, she just shrugs and says, “I wanted to see what you were like, beyond being an ‘angry jerk with a ponytail.’ And your uncle makes really good tea. If Katara and Sokka knew, there’s no way they’d let me keep having this tea.”

So, there’s that.

* * *

Toph’s been acting weird lately, weirder than normal. Also way more self-satisfied and smug. Katara’s picked up on it too, and when Toph comes back from whatever she does that covers her hair with a light dusting of dirt that she easily bends off, Katara corners her and asks, “Where have you been going to all the time lately?”

“Just enjoying some really good tea and nice company. How are the Appa posters doing?” Toph deflects.

“Great,” Katara reports, utterly undeflected. “What tea? Do you recommend the place?”

Toph poses into a thinking position, then smirks and says, “Yeah, I think I’ve worn him down enough he won’t immediately set the place on fire if you all come. You guys can come with me tomorrow, especially Sokka, and I’ll also show you all how to shake off our Dai Li tails.”

Everything that just came out of her mouth worries him. Sokka asks, “Why especially me? And why the arson?”

The smirk goes positively maniacal. “Why? Cause we’re going to see our shared soulmate. I found him. And all of you absolutely cannot freak out when you get there or I’m punting you out immediately.”

* * *

Zuko’s soulmate is a hellion. The spirits are punishing him for something, he has no idea what yet, but they’re definitely punishing him for something. Because Toph slams open the door – as almost always – and she asks, “Hey, Uncle, can we invade your backroom again?”

And his uncle, bemused, says, “Certainly.”

“Cool,” she says and then leads in _her whole group_.

There’s staring. There’s pointing. The customers are excitedly watching this new episode of their favorite daily theater. Toph grabs Zuko’s arm in a vice like grip, with all the deadly promise of a twelve-foot long boa, and drags them all into the backroom which doesn’t have _nearly_ enough space for this much chaos. Zuko doesn’t even realize he unconsciously lurches in the Avatar’s direction until Toph punches him in the other arm.

“ _Hey_ ,” Zuko barks.

“ _He’s our soulmate?_ ” the Water Tribe boy – what’s his name, right, Sokka – shrieks.

“Keep it down,” Toph hisses.

The waterbender, Katara, hovers menacingly by the water bowls. The – Aang blinks wide-eyed at everyone.

Sokka cannot be kept down. “Nuh uh, no way. There’s no way his angry ponytailness can be our soulmate.”

Balefully glaring at him and reviewing all their past interactions, Zuko decides fatalistically that yes, yes he can see this person being the one to incessantly use Zuko as a captive and unwilling test subject for his jokes. “Please tell me you never actually used the tortoise and the bear joke on anyone,” Zuko says. “That one was _awful_.”

The room goes silent.

“Is everything alright in here?” Uncle asks, sticking his head in right when Sokka collapses onto the ground with a high-pitched keening noise.

“No,” almost everyone says.

“Yes,” says Toph. “Could we have some ginseng?”

* * *

Hours later, the Avatar and his group is _still there_. Zuko can’t stay with them the whole time because he’s technically still on shift, so there’s plenty of belligerent and awkward animosity going around in the air instead. There’s also outright staring and at least his uncle somehow convinces them all to _not_ blow their cover. Zuko doesn’t care. He has other things to care about.

Like, does Zuko tell Sokka that his jokes and his random half-stories helped keep Zuko and his uncle alive for the three some weeks they were adrift at sea? There’s – there’s too much to unpack here. The first time Zuko saw his soulmate – one of his soulmates – face to face, he kicked his soulmate in said face. And then proceeded to relentlessly chase his group up and down the planet – which, shouldn’t he still be doing that? His honor, his father, Azula, all of that, going back home to the Fire Nation, _all of that_ – it hinges on the Avatar’s capture at Zuko’s hands.

But Sokka helped keep Uncle Iroh alive. Even if he wasn’t aware of it.

Zuko sends a frantic glance over at Toph. She’s an earthbender, she can dump him straight through the floor and leave him there. Except she’s blind and by the glee in her expression, this is the best show she’s ever been too. Show _and_ a meal, Uncle slides her a platter of sweets, the traitor. How a blind twelve-year-old girl knows how to leer, Zuko has no idea, but there she is, leering at him and saying, “Well?”

The other customers have finally cleared out for the shop to close. Pao stuck his head in earlier to send the gaggle of teenagers and pre-teens a judgmental look, but Toph made sure they were paying customers and the shop owner largely left them alone.

With no help coming from her, Zuko groans and thumps his head against the table. She slaps him a few times on the shoulder in perverse sympathy. Meanwhile Katara, who had been maintaining a frigid air of civility through the whole afternoon for the sake of the shop, finally explodes. “Why are you here! How did you even get _into_ Ba Sing Se, it’s supposed to be safe, from people like you! Is this some kind of plot?”

“I wish,” Zuko growls into the stained wood.

“You’ve been chasing after us all over the world, trying to capture the world’s last hope. How could you!”

Spirits, it’s only a matter of time before she tries shoving him into a giant ice cube again.

“Katara, I told you guys, no freaking out,” says Toph.

“And _you_.” Katara levels an enraged finger at her. “You knew he was here all this time and you didn’t _say anything?_ ”

“Well, _excuse me_ for wanting to see if my _soulmate_ was as evil and fiery as you all kept saying,” Toph flings back. “And you know what, it turns out he’s not! We can’t all have the _Avatar_ as our soulmate!”

Zuko thumps his head against the table again in a meager hope for brain damage. From his left comes a mild, “Maybe you shouldn’t keep doing that.”

He turns his head just enough to glare at Aang. In return the Avatar blinks and raises his hands defensively. “Just saying.”

“If this is what being friends with you is going to be like, then I definitely don’t want to be friends,” Zuko tells him. On his other side, the girls are still screaming at each other with Sokka stuck in the middle.

Aang smiles and shrugs. “It’s not that bad.”

* * *

Toph keeps up her campaign to make Zuko question his life and sanity. The Avatar has evidently decided that all is good and right about this situation and talks Katara down from stabbing Zuko in the kidney with an icicle in his sleep. After a few days, Sokka gets over questioning his fate and his life choices and starts sending Zuko jokes that are even more deliberately terrible.

It’s a bizarre series of weeks. The Avatar and his group show up for the grand opening of the Jasmine Dragon.

Then Azula shows up and Zuko, worn out and thoroughly confused about _everything_ , decides, _fuck it_. He's choosing the side without horrible daily goop. 

At least Uncle’s happy.

**Author's Note:**

> y’all: navi how the fuck did you sneak another canon divergence au into here  
> me: Neither God Nor Canon Can Tell Me Shit™


End file.
